Wisdom and the tragic question: Moral learning and ...

ORE Open Research Exeter

TITLE

Wisdom and the tragic question: Moral learning and emotional perception in leadership andorganizations

AUTHORS

Nayak, Ajit

JOURNAL

Journal of Business Ethics

DEPOSITED IN ORE

18 February 2015

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http://hdl.handle.net/10871/16384

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http://hdl.handle.net/10871/16384

[Type text] [Type text] Tragic question

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Wisdom and the tragic question: Moral learning and emotional perception in

leadership and organizations

Ajit Nayak

University of Exeter Business School

Streatham Court

Rennes Drive

Exeter EX4 4PU

UK

Telephone: +44 (0)1392 726266

Email: [email protected]


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Section: Leadership: Philosophical/Theoretical/Qualitative Issues

Abstract

Wisdom is almost always associated with doing the right thing in the right way under right

circumstances in order to achieve the common good. In this paper, however, we propose that

wisdom is more associated with deciding between better and worse wrongs; a winless

situation we define as tragic. We suggest that addressing the tragic question is something that

leaders and managers generally avoid when focusing on business decisions and choices. Yet,

raising and confronting the tragic question is important for three main reasons. Firstly, it

emphasises that wisdom is about recognising that doing the ethically responsible thing can

sometimes lead to acting in ways that violate different ethical norms and values. Secondly, it

foregrounds the issue of emotional perception in ethical decision-making. We argue that

emotions are salient in directing attention to the tragic question and recognising morally

ambiguous situations. Thirdly, the tragic question has important consequences for moral

learning, accepting moral culpability for wrongdoing and organizational commitment to

righting the wrong. We illustrate our arguments by drawing on three mini-cases: Arjuna’s

dilemma in the Mahabharata, Gioia’s deliberations about his role in the Ford Pinto fires, and

the production of the abortion pill by French company Roussel-Uclaf.

Keywords – emotions, moral decision, tragic question, virtue, wisdom.


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Introduction

With each corporate scandal we are left with the same questions – where are the wise

leaders and managers? Why is it that the same leaders and managers, whom we celebrated as

heroes, turn out to have been complicit in fraud and profiting personally at the expense of

their company and society at large? As Nonaka and Takeuchi lament, “the ability to lead

wisely has nearly vanished ... The prevailing principles in business make employees ask,

‘What’s in it for me?’. Missing are those that would make them think, ‘What’s good, right,

and just for everyone?’ The purpose of business, executives still believe, is business, and

greed is good so long as the SEC doesn’t find out” (Nonaka & Takeuchi, 2011, p. 59). As

Srivastava and Cooperrider (1998, p. 3) aptly noted, “precisely at a time when we sense that

the need for wisdom is higher than ever, it appears, paradoxically, to be less and less

available.”

In order to address the wisdom deficit, there has been a growing interest in

understanding wisdom in organizations (Kessler & Bailey, 2007; Srivastava & Cooperrider,

1998), particularly amongst leaders (McKenna, Rooney, & Boal, 2009; Nonaka & Takeuchi,

2011; Solansky, 2013; Sternberg, 2008; Yang, 2011; Zacher, Pearce, Rooney, & McKenna,

2014). Although wisdom has a long-standing theological and philosophical heritage (see

Robinson, 1990 for a review), in recent years the literature has been dominated by

psychological theories (Staudinger & Gluck, 2011). Staudinger and Gluck (2011) identify

two distinct approaches to wisdom in psychology. One approach presupposes a rich and

culturally varied existence of wisdom in the general population and focuses on identifying

our implicit theories of wisdom. These ‘folk conceptions of wisdom’ provide a basis for


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understanding how people see and experience wisdom in their own lives and that of others

(Clayton & Birren, 1980; Gluck, Bischof, & Siebenhuner, 2012; Gluck & Bluck, 2011;

Koneig & Gluck, 2012; Redzanowski & Gluck, 2013; Sternberg, 1985). An alternative

approach is to explicitly define wisdom and test its existence or lack of in the population.

This approach distinguishes between general and personal wisdom (Staudinger, Dorner, &

Miclker, 2005). General wisdom, most readily associated with the Berlin Wisdom Paradigm,

is based on posing hypothetical questions to elicit ‘expertise in the fundamental pragmatics of

life’ and assigning wisdom based on answers that demonstrate “rich factual knowledge about

life, rich procedural knowledge about life, lifespan contextualism, relativism of values and

life priorities, and recognition and management of uncertainty” (Baltes & Staudinger, 2000).

Personal wisdom, in contrast, builds on aging and human development perspective to focus

on difficult personal experiences and how individuals learn from them. Personal wisdom is

seen as a learning process that integrates life experiences and culminates in psychological

well-being (Gluck & Bluck, 2007; Koenig et al., 2010; Labouvie-Vief & Hakim-Larson,

1989; Ryff & Keyes, 1995; Ryff & Singer, 2006).

We build on the notion that wisdom is a developmental process, one that emerges out

of encountering difficult situations, experiencing irreconcilable moral dilemmas, and

deliberating about them. Hence, wisdom is “not a transcendent attribute but rather a

sensemaking response to temporality, to emergent processes, to specific conditions and

opportunities, and to organizational culture” (Srivastava & Cooperrider, 1998, p. 5). For us

wisdom is a balance between active agency and passivity and the acceptance of ‘finding

oneself’ in difficult situations and recognising one’s moral responsibilities. A wise person

recognises that things happen through luck and chance as much as they are made to happen

through personal agency and choice. In terms of active choice, a wise person recognises that

s/he is ‘thrown’ into a situation that is not of one’s making, forced to constantly choose


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among competing and apparently incommensurable choices and that circumstances may

compel her to a position in which she cannot help doing the wrong thing. It is in this sense

that we see wisdom in response to the tragic situation of facing a wrong-wrong choice.

Wisdom is not a neutral, but a learned disposition or capacity which evokes and provokes

something that deeply concerns us, matters to us and that we act upon.

Our contribution in this paper is three-fold. Firstly, we focus on the tragic question to

define wisdom. Responding to the tragic question recognises that individuals and

organizations are vulnerable to doing the wrong thing. In the extant literature, wisdom is

associated with ‘doing the right thing’ and lack of wisdom is associated with wrong-doing.

For example, as the Nonaka and Takeuchi quote at the start illustrates, lack of wisdom is

associated with wrong-doing and ignoring the question of what is right for everyone. Some

hope that “difficult problems, such as global warming and financial crises, may be resolved

or avoided if leadership is executed with wisdom” (Yang, 2011, p. 616). For others wisdom

would have prevented organizational scandals. As Sternberg (2003, p. 396) states “Certainly

the business leaders of Enron, Arthur Andersen Accounting, WorldCom, and other

organizations whose leaders drove them into bankruptcy were intelligent and creative. They

were not wise.” Theoretically, ethical issues have been central to defining wisdom. For

example, the starting point of the Berlin Wisdom Paradigm’s explicit theory of wisdom

(Baltes & Staudinger, 2000; Staudinger & Baltes, 1996) is related to the ‘pragmatics of life.’

Similarly, Sternberg’s balance theory starts with the premise that a wise person synthesises

knowledge, intelligence, creativity and wisdom to “seek to reach a common good”

(Sternberg, 2008, p. 366). In contrast to the Berlin Wisdom Paradigm and the balance theory

of wisdom, we explicitly foreground moral dilemmas and focus on the significance of posing

the tragic questions. Previous work on ethical decision making, particularly the distinctions

between right-wrong decisions (Gunia, Wang, Huang, Wang, & Murnighan, 2012; Jones,


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1991; Tenbrunsel & Smith-Crowe, 2008) and right-right decisions (Badaracco, 1997, 2006)

have significantly contributed to our understanding. We also draw on the literature on moral

reasoning (Kohlberg; Rest, 1986; Rest & Narvaez, 1994) and moral imagination (Moberg,

2006; Werhane, 2002) to explicate its role in wisdom. Central to our contribution is the link

between wisdom and wrong-wrong decisions. We identify an implicit conflation between

wisdom and ‘doing the right thing’. By asking the tragic question (wrong-wrong decision) we

focus on an aspect of wisdom that has hitherto remained unexamined: recognising,

experiencing and coping with the difficulty of doing the wrong thing is integral to wisdom.

We demonstrate how the tragic question can be left unasked, and how, by asking it, we begin

to appreciate wisdom as emotional perception and producing and attesting to human virtues.

Secondly, we emphasise and focus on openness to emotions in becoming wise.

Following previous researchers who have emphasised the role of emotions and affect in

wisdom (Ardelt, 2000; Clayton & Birren, 1980; Kramer, 2000; Pascual-Leone, 1990), we

explore the connection between wisdom and emotions. Our main contribution to the literature

is our emphasis on emotions, not as accompaniments to intellectual and reflective skills, but

as mode of attention. We argue that emotions are salient in perceiving and recognising moral

wrongdoing in situations. Contrary to conventional thinking that separates rational

deliberation and reflection from emotions, we argue that emotions are constitutive of the way

we see the world and emotions reveal what matters to us in its particularity. Emotions are

central to how situations show themselves as lacking in virtues and offers a chance to stand

up for what is right and virtuous. For example, a sense of indignation and resentment towards

bankers after the 2008 financial crisis made us alert to the notion of corporate greed, just as a

feeling of compassion towards the poor and excluded opens our eyes to their sufferings and

misfortune. Hence, being wise is not the ability to be detached and balance intellect and

emotions, but to learn to practically cope with their role in alerting and sensitizing us to the


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morally salient issues in each unique situation. This is important because emotions run

contrary to our understanding of courageous, bold and action-oriented leaders. Management

in general (Maitlis, Vogus, & Lawrence, 2013), and business ethics in particular “is led by

overly rational assumptions about morality that either downplay the importance of emotion or

seek to regulate its expression” (ten Bos & Willmott, 2001, p. 770). Emotions are seen as

getting in the way of action by making us hesitate and unsure about what should be done. In

contrast to this dominant view, we suggest that emotions are central to wisdom. This point is

particularly important because managers and leaders are not selected for their ability to show

emotions. On the contrary, the more in control and invincible they are perceived, they more

likely that they are promoted to leadership positions. Thus, we identify a potentially

conflicting consequence: we demand more wisdom from our leaders, but we promote leaders

who control and regulate their emotions.

Thirdly, in contrast to the dominant question in the wisdom literature – What is

wisdom? – our starting point is – What does wisdom do? Rather than focus on the personal

and general wisdom competences and skills, we argue that wisdom is productive. Doing wise,

as opposed to being wise, implies producing anew human virtues that individuals and

organizations attest to as being worthy. We emphasise collective production and attestation of

human virtues as central to wisdom. In the extant literature, wisdom has been defined in

terms of integration of various attributes and competences. For example, the Berlin Wisdom

Paradigm defines wisdom as the “mastering the basic dialectics shaping human existence,

such as the dialectic between good and bad, positivity and negativity, dependency and

independence, certainty and doubt, control and lack of control, finiteness and eternity,

strength and weakness, and selfishness and altruism” (Staudinger & Gluck, 2011, p. 217).

Others define wisdom as an integration of cognition, emotion and motivation (Birren &

Fisher, 1990; Kramer, 1990). Others still define wisdom as a balance between personal,


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interpersonal and extrapersonal interests over short and long term by adapting, shaping and

selecting situations to seek a common good (Sternberg, 2008). However, none of the studies

focus on addressing what is collectively produced by the wise person in his/her attempt to

master dialectics of human existence, integrate and balance various traits and competences.

Organizations are sites of collective actions; hence, we focus on wisdom as collective

production of human virtues.

The paper is structured as follows. Firstly, we contribute to the wisdom literature by

considering how tragic situations can be used to frame wisdom. We define tragic situations as

ones where no choice is free from moral wrongdoing. We draw on Nussbaum’s (2000)

description of Arjuna’s dilemma from the Mahabharata which distinguishes between the

obvious and the tragic question. Secondly, we argue for the importance of emotions in moral

perception and moral imagination in response to the tragic question. We illustrate our

arguments through Gioia’s reflections on the Ford Pinto fires (Gioia, 1992). Thirdly, we

elaborate on the productive dimension of answering the tragic question. Rather than

understanding wisdom as something individualised, we argue for a collective production of

human virtues anew, and attestation to stand by those virtues in the future. We illustrate the

complexities of the productive dimension of the tragic question through Roussel-Uclaf’s

(RU) decision to produce the abortion pill in the late 1980s (Badaracco, 1997). We draw on

three mini cases (Arjuna’s dilemma, Gioia’s reflections on Ford Pinto, and the abortion pill),

not as an exemplar of organization wisdom, but to illustrate the difficulties in attesting to

human virtues in organizational life. Finally, we discuss the implications of addressing the

tragic question. We argue for the importance of personal wisdom gained through reflecting

on tragic questions and for understanding organizational wisdom as public acceptance of

moral culpability and commitment to changing the tragic situation.


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The tragic question

Arjuna stands at the head of his troops. A huge battle is about to

begin. On his side are the Pandavas, the royal family headed by

Arjuna’s eldest brother, legitimate heir to the throne. On the other

side are the Kauravas, Arjuna’s cousins, who have usurped power.

More or less everyone has joined one side or the other, and Arjuna

sees that many on the enemy side are blameless people for whom he

has affection. In the ensuing battle he will have to kill as many of

them as possible. How can it be right to embark on a course that

involves trying to bring death to so many relations and friends? How,

on the other hand, could it possibly be right to abandon one’s own

side and one’s family duty? Arjuna saw his closest kinsmen, related

to him as father or grandfather, uncle or brother, son or grandson,

preceptor as well as companion and friend, on both sides. Overcome

by this sight, he said in sorrow and compassion, ‘‘O Krishna, when I

see my own people ready to fight and eager for battle, my limbs

shudder, my mouth is dry, my body shivers, and my hair stands on

end. Furthermore, I see evil portents, and I can see no good in killing

my own kinsmen. It is not right and proper that we should kill our

own kith and kin, the Kauravas. How can we be happy if we slay our

own people? ... O Krishna, how can I strike with my arrows people

like the grandsire Bhisma and the preceptor Drona, who are worthy of

my respect?’’ ... Having said these words, Arjuna threw away his bow

and arrows, and sat down sorrowfully on the seat of his car.

(Nussbaum, 2000: 1005-6)


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The scene of Arjuna laying down his weapons is from the great Indian tragic novel,

The Mahabharata. Nussbaum (2000) uses this epic scene to distinguish between two types of

questions – the obvious and the tragic. The obvious question asks – ‘What should I do in this

situation? Although we may not find ourselves in Arjuna’s situation, the Mahabharata and

other classic tragic Greek literature (e.g. Antigone by Sophocles) allow us to reflect upon

difficult choices and decide what we would do if we were in the protagonist’s shoes. In

contrast to the obvious question, a tragic question is one that raises the issue of moral

wrongdoing. It asks – Are there alternatives available that are free of moral wrongdoing? The

tragic question is not simply a recognition that the choices are competing and difficult.

Difficulty of choice is independent of the presence of moral wrong on both sides of a choice.

In non-tragic cases, answers to the obvious question may be very difficult, if two or more

(non-tragic) alternatives are equally balanced and/or the means to achieving the alternatives

are unknown. In contrast, in tragic dilemmas it may be clear what should be done. For

example, for Arjuna, counselled by Krishna, the answer is clear that he must fight and kill his

cousins and elders. Driven by his duty towards king and country, Arjuna and his army fight

the ‘just’ war using unfair means to win. Whilst all alternatives are morally wrong, the

answer to the obvious question may be clear. However, what the tragic question raises is a

specific mode of difficulty: the fact that all the possible answers to the obvious question

involving serious moral wrongdoing. This question need not be asked. On the contrary, as

Krishna argues, the tragic question gets in the way of fighting the just war and acting in the

situation faced by Arjuna. Arjuna, however, feels that the tragic question must be asked.

When the answer to the tragic question is ‘no’, there are no options that are free from moral

wrongdoing, the question brings to the fore the issue of moral wrong in any choice made.

On a continuum of moral issues, from acute cases to quasi-moral dilemmas

(Maclagan, 2003), the tragic question lies at the acute end “where whatever you do seems to


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be wrong” (Jackson, 1996, p. 35). In that sense, there is no ‘right answer’ to the tragic

question; only a recognition that any choice will lead to moral wrongdoing. More formally, a

situation is tragic when at the same time 1) there is a moral requirement for a manager to

adopt each of two (or more) alternatives; 2) it would be wrong to violate either of the moral

requirement; 3) the manager cannot choose both alternatives together; 4) the manager can

choose each alternative separately (Quinn, 1990; Sinnott-Armstrong, 1988). What this

definition highlights is that tragic situations are ones where a wrong action is committed

without any direct physical compulsion, in full knowledge of the wrong involved, by a person

whose moral and ethical character or commitments would otherwise dispose him to reject the

act. The dilemma arises from the presence of circumstances that prevent adequate recognition

of two or more valid ethical claims.

Asking the tragic question does not imply that the person acting will be able to make a

better decision. On the contrary, it may appear to be indulging in ‘hand wringing’ and lead to

delays in action. What the tragic question raises is the issue of ethical considerations that are

independent of action. People suffer from the wrongs done regardless of how leaders and

managers justify their actions to themselves and others. Whilst the situation may compel an

individual to choose between two ‘necessary evils’, asking the tragic question leads to two

important considerations. Firstly, it foregrounds ethical judgment. The answer to the tragic

question is not to find justifications for the action undertaken, but to produce human virtue

anew. Secondly, the tragic question sensitizes our emotional antennae for perceiving moral

wrongdoing. In the next section, we discuss the productive and emotional dispositions

emerging from asking the tragic question. It is by recognising that the answer to the tragic

question is ‘no, there are no options free from serious moral wrongdoing’ that the wise

produce and attest to human values anew, sensitise perception to ethical issues and accept

moral culpability. By recognising that all choices in response to the tragic question are


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morally wrong and by drawing upon ethical values independent of the course of action

chosen, the wise stand up for and promise to stand by ethical values. It is when this ethical

stance is made publicly, as opposed to private debates, and with the right emotions that the

tragic question becomes significant. By publicly asking the tragic question the wise accept

moral culpability for choosing a morally wrong action (although there were no morally right

actions available) and commit to remembering the wrong and ‘doing right’ by the people

wronged.

Ethical perception with emotions and passions

The tragic question is first and foremost a question about ethical perception. Standing

in the middle of the battlefield, Arjuna perceived a morally acute situation where he is forced

to choose between wrong and wrong. The issue here is not one of cognitive perception, but an

emotional response to the situation. As the Mahabharata states, “Arjuna slumped into the

chariot and laid down his bows and arrows, his mind tormented by grief. Arjuna sat dejected,

filled with pity, his sad eyes blurred by tears” (Das, 2009, p. 91). Previous research on

wisdom has highlighted the significance of emotions. For example, Csikszentmihalyi and

Rathunde (1990, p. 31) emphasise “a blending of these two – the intellectual perception of

truth and the moral sentiment of right – is wisdom (Emerson, 1929, p. 45).” Several

psychological studies also point to the integrative role of emotions in wisdom (Ardelt, 2000;

Clayton & Birren, 1980). Wisdom scholars also recognise that “emotions (feelings) and their

corresponding passions (commitments and drives to act) are significant in wisdom. Anger at

injustice and love for humanity, for example, can guide and motivate one to speak and act for

the good” (Rooney & McKenna, 2007, p. 115, emphasis original). However, previous

research undervalues the significance of emotions as a mode of attention. In particular, we


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focus on the perception of ethical issues, as Arjuna’s predicament illustrates, that begin to

frame a situation in terms of the tragic question.

We draw on the literature on moral perception (Blum, 1991), ethical sensitivity

(Wittmer, 1992) and moral awareness (Butterfield, Trevino, & Weaver, 2000) to articulate

the role of emotions in asking the tragic question. There are three main issues here. Firstly,

tragic situations do not come pre-labelled. Instead, ethical sensitivity, “the awareness of how

our actions affect other people ... involves being aware of different possible lines of action

and how each line of action could affect the parties concerned” (Rest & Narvaez, 1994, p.

23), is the first step in recognising that ethical issues are at stake. Secondly, perception of a

tragic situation is not unified. By this we mean that different parts of one’s moral makeup are

brought to bear in seeing and not seeing different aspects of a tragic situation. Thirdly, what

one person sees as morally wrong, may not be part of another’s moral considerations. For

example, some people are more sensitive to wrongs done to children, the poor, the

environment or animals. Equally, some people are more aware of wrongs such as race and

gender inequalities and discrimination based on sexual orientation.

Within organizations, the main moral or ethical cases revolve around choosing

between right and wrong. As several of the scandals such as Enron, WorldCom, banks selling

collateralised debt obligations (CDOs) and fixing LIBOR rates demonstrate, the choice

exercised by leaders and managers is between doing the right thing or doing the wrong thing.

These cases contain moral issues, i.e. one option is morally wrong, but they do not contain

tragic dilemmas. Moreover, organizations frame ethical issues in terms of doing what the

company asks and expects you to do, i.e. doing your duty, and doing something that will lead

to harm to others.

We can see the complexities of moral perception in the Ford Pinto case (Gioia, 1992).

Long before Gioia cognitively accepted that he was wrong in voting twice not to recall the


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cars, he responded emotionally to the photographs of burnt cars. He recalls “being disquieted

by a field report accompanied by graphic, detailed photos of the remains of a burned-out

Pinto in which several people had died” (Gioia, 1992, p. 382). Gioia explains how

organization scripts and frames meant that he did not act on this moral perception. These

scripts and frames dampened his emotional perception in favour of an intellectual response

based on cost-benefit analysis of recalling the cars. More challenging is his admission that he

could not intellectually accept that he had done something wrong for several years after the

event. As he notes:

It is fascinating to me that for several years after I first conducted the

living case with myself as the focus, I remained convinced that I had

made the “right” decision in not recommending recall of the cars. In

light of the times and the evidence available, I thought I had pursued a

reasonable course of action. (Gioia, 1992, p. 384)

The Ford Pinto case and Gioia’s remarkable intellectual journey into understanding

his moral failure illustrate the difficulty of posing the tragic question. It emphasises that not

all of us will see the tragic question as Arjuna did. Unless one perceives tragic situations, and

unless one perceives their moral salience accurately, one’s moral principles and skill at

deliberation count for nothing. As Gioia states:

The recall coordinator's job was serious business. The scripts

associated with it influenced me much more than I influenced it.

Before I went to Ford I would have argued strongly that Ford had an

ethical obligation to recall. After I left Ford I now argue and teach

that Ford had an ethical obligation to recall. But, while I was there, I

perceived no strong obligation to recall and I remember no strong


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ethical overtones to the case whatsoever. (Gioia, 1992, p. 388,

emphasis original)

As Arjuna and Gioia demonstrate, emotions sensitize our moral perception. They play

an important role in perceiving the circumstances and recognising its morally salient features.

We notice certain features rather than others because of our emotional vulnerabilities. This is

aptly summarized by Sherman (2000).

We can think of them [emotions] as modes of attention enabling us to

notice what is morally salient, important, or urgent in ourselves and

our surroundings. They help us track the morally relevant ‘news.’

They are an affective medium by which we discern the particulars.

Through capacities for grief we are primed to notice loss and the

anguish of suffering loss; through pity, we are sensitive to the fact

that people fail, sometimes through blameless ignorance, or duress,

accident, or sickness; through empathy, we can identify with what

others delight in and sorrow over. The general point is that moral

situations don’t come pre-labelled. Emotions help us to label them

under specific descriptions. Those who lack moral perception, who

are obtuse about the moral dimensions of a situation, are often just

those who have never cultivated their emotional repertoire. (Sherman,

2000, p. 325).

The selective and discriminatory character of emotions “makes proper passivity and

passional responsiveness an important and necessary part of good deliberation” (Nussbaum,

2001, p. 307). In other words, we must first realise and passively acknowledge that we need

to act before deliberating about how to act. We see the world, not dispassionately, but


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because of emotions. Gioia’s sense of ‘being disquieted’ made him sensitive to those who

suffered needless loss of life. His compassion briefly opened his eyes to the cruel misfortunes

of the people who died. Yet, as he followed the organization script that devalued emotional

perception, he failed to ask the tragic question. The Ford Pinto case is not an isolated one

where leaders and managers exhibit ‘wilful blindness’ to moral issues (Bandura, 2002;

Heffernan, 2011; Palazzo, Krings, & Hoffrage, 2012). Moreover, employees may engage in

unethical pro-organizational behaviour by obfuscating and neutralising moral issues and

treating them as business decisions (Sykes & Matza, 1957; Tenbrunsel, Diekmann, Wade-

Benzoni, & Bazerman, 2010; Umphress & Bingham, 2011). However, if we accept that

organizational lives are riddled with moral concerns (Bird & Waters, 1987, 1989; Bird,

Westley, & Waters, 1989; Snell, 2000, 2001; Snell & Tseng, 2002; Waters, Bird, & Chant,

1986), then we can begin to recognise the significance of asking the tragic question.

It is important to recognise that what we are arguing for is not emotions as

accompaniment to other forms of perception, but that without emotions our perception would

be inferior. We would lack “the sort of resonance and importance that only emotional

involvement can sustain” (Sherman, 1989, p. 47). Emotions play an important role in how we

are disclosed to the world and establish what matters to me/us. “So the generous action that

falls short of generous emotions is often a morally compromised response” (Sherman, 2000,

p. 325). Concerns, interests and involvement become our concerns, our interests and our

involvement when disclosed through our human emotions and resonate with others.

Similarly, as Nussbaum concludes, “emotions are themselves modes of vision, or recognition.

Their responses are part of what knowing, that is truly recognizing or acknowledging,

consists in. To respond “at the right times with reference to the right objects, towards the

right people, with the right aim, and in the right way, is what is appropriate and best, and this

is characteristic of excellence” (EN 1106b21-3)” (Nussbaum, 1990, p. 79, emphasis original).


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Through emotions we convey to others that we care about something in particular, or are the

type of person who takes certain things to be worthy and important. As well as reacting

emotionally to what we find worthy, emotions also disclose our motives for action. “We act

out of compassion, out of friendliness, out of sympathy” (Sherman, 2000, p. 327, emphasis

original).

To summarise, asking the tragic question raises the issue of moral wrongdoing. It is

distinct from the obvious question which addresses what should be done. However, what the

tragic question does is develop a “more ‘yielding’ and flexible conception of responsive

perception” (Nussbaum, 2001, p. 291). The tragic question calls for discernment of

perception and “complex responsiveness to the salient features of one’s concrete situation”

(Nussbaum, 1990, p. 55). Organization wisdom, in this sense, is not about deciding on a

course of action, but about recognising the “thoroughly human being” (Nussbaum, 2001 p.

290, emphasis added) of tragic situations. By this we mean that wisdom does not stand

outside of the everyday realities of human life, but as we argue in the next section, draws on

an immersed understanding of lived realities to produce human virtues anew.

Productive dimension of wisdom

Asking the tragic question and registering emotional perception of ethics in a situation

is difficult enough, but wisdom is practical (Aristotle, 2002) and requires action. Wisdom

does not imply a ‘view from nowhere’ (Nagel, 1986), but comes from being-in-the-world that

we are thrown into (Dreyfus, 1991; Heidegger, 1962). “[W]isdom is a way of being rather

than an accumulation of knowledge, an elevated IQ or simply an application of technical

rationality” (Rooney & McKenna, 2007, p. 116). Hence, questions about wisdom are closely

connected to the world we are thrown into, and reveals what we care for and are attuned to.

Wisdom calls for a “highly complex, nuanced perception of, and emotional response to, the


17

concrete features of one’s own context, including particular persons and relationships”

(Nussbaum, 1990 p. 7). The tragic question and emotional perception direct attention,

disclose what is important to us, create value, move us towards action and humanize us.

Thus, wisdom has a productive dimension, one that produces worthy human virtues. Wisdom,

in this sense, is “the ability to pursue a goal initially worth pursuing in such a way that it

continues to be worth pursuing” (Broadie, 1991, p. 240, emphasis original). Emotions

disclose what we continue to find worthy. For example, emotions such as anger against the

bankers who caused the financial crisis and the rich who avoid paying taxes discloses our

sense of injustice and wrong-doing, not just in specific instances, but as worthy causes. In this

sense wisdom is a judgement on what we take to be good and bad in the world.

We draw on virtue ethics (Aristotle, 2002; Nussbaum, 2001; Sherman, 2000) to

elaborate on the productive dimension of wisdom. In Nicomachean Ethics Aristotle (2002)

distinguishes between three types of knowledge: episteme, techne and phronesis. The first of

these is episteme or scientific knowledge, which Aristotle considers to be about things that

are necessarily true and “is subject neither to coming into being nor to passing out of being”

(EN 1139b15). In episteme “we reflect upon the sorts of things whose principles cannot be

otherwise” (EN 1139a5). In contrast to episteme, techne and phronesis are ‘productive

dispositions’ in which “we reflect upon things that can be otherwise” (EN 1139a5). What

differentiates these two productive dispositions (techne and phronesis) is deliberation about

“e.g. what sorts of things conduce to health, or to physical strength” (techne) and “what sorts

of things conduce to the good life in general” (EN 1140a25). In contrast to techne, phronesis

relates “to action in the sphere of what is good and bad for human beings” (EN 1140b5)

rather than a particular practice such as being a doctor. Phronesis is productive, but unlike

techne which produces a product, phronesis produces anew ultimate human virtues. Thus, an

important part of responding to the tragic question is the act of producing and attesting to


18

human values anew. In the case of Arjuna’s tragic question, he affirms the importance of

fighting the ‘just war’ and killing his cousins and forefathers. Counselled by Krishna, he is

persuaded to carry out his ‘sacred duty of the warrior’ and ‘be intent on the action, not on the

fruits of action’. Krishna’s attempt to help Arjuna answer the tragic question forms the

famous Bhagavad Gita which offers various arguments in favour of doing one’s duty without

consideration for rewards. Whilst organizational dilemmas are not always as dramatic or

tragic in their consequences, they still become ‘defining moments’ for affirming and attesting

to what one considers virtuous (Badaracco, 1997). Organizational context also provides a

variety of ‘Krishna’s’ as counsel. These include codes of conduct (McCabe, Trevino, &

Butterfield, 1996; Schwartz, 2002) and values exhibited and implicitly or explicitly condoned

by others, particularly leaders (Brown & Trevino, 2006; Jordan, Brown, Trevino, &

Finkelstein, 2013; Pitesa & Thau, 2013; Sonenshein, 2007). It also includes values and value

commitments arising from other non-organizational settings such as religious beliefs, family

members, mentors and role models, and cultural socialization.

We can appreciate the productive dimension of organization wisdom in the complex

case of RU 486, the French abortion pill manufactured by Roussel-Uclaf (Badaracco, 1997).

In 1988, the chairman of Roussel-Uclaf, Edouard Sakiz, faced the difficult situation of

deciding whether the company should manufacture the abortion pill. The decision involved

multiple stakeholders with different and incommensurable ethical position on the issue. On

the one side were women’s rights activists and the French Government (35% owner of

Roussel-Uclaf) who argued for women’s rights and choice, and Sakiz, who as a medical

practitioner and scientist involved in developing the drug, believed that the abortion pill could

help women in poor countries avoid botched abortions. On the other side were Hoechst (55%

owner of Roussel-Uclaf) with its Roman Catholic chairman who publicly opposed abortions,

and a strong anti-abortion lobby. In between were several other stakeholders with differing


19

reasons and positions on what should be done. China, who subsequently become one the first

countries, along with France, to approve the abortion pill argued that the pill would help

control their surging population and prevent starvation.

Sakiz and Roussel-Uclaf faced a tragic situation where the competing values of

various stakeholders, including himself and the company, were at stake. To complicate

matters, unlike Arjuna’s case, there was no single counsel to guide action. Unlike the Ford

Pinto case, given the public outcry, no organizational script could dampen the morally

weighty issues under consideration. What finally transpired was that Roussel-Uclaf’s board

discussed and voted on the issue:

At an October 21 meeting, Sakiz surprised members of the

management committee by calling for a discussion of RU 486. There,

in Roussel-Uclaf’s ultra-modern board room, the pill’s longstanding

opponents repeated their objections: RU 486 could spark a painful

boycott, it was hurting employee morale, management was devoting

too much of its energy to defending itself in this controversy. Finally,

it would never be hugely profitable, because much would be sold on

cost basis to the Third World. After two hours, Sakiz again stunned

the committee by calling for a vote. When he raised his own hand in

favour of suspending distribution of RU 486, it was clear that the pill

was doomed.

The company informed its employees of the decision on October 25.

The next day, Roussel-Uclaf announced publicly that ‘it was

suspending distribution of the drug because of pressures from anti-

abortion groups.’ (Badaracco, 1997, p. 106)


20

However, this was not the end of the matter. Amidst huge anger and outcry over the

decision to suspend distribution of the abortion pill, the French Government decided to stand

by the right of women to choose abortion:

Three days after Roussel-Uclaf announced that it would suspend

distribution, the French minister of health summoned Roussel-Uclaf’s

vice chairman to his office and said that, if the company did not

resume distribution, the government would transfer the patent to a

company that would ... After the meeting with the minister of health,

Roussel-Uclaf announced that it would distribute RU 486 after all.

(Badaracco, 1997, p. 107)

What should be done and what was done by Sakiz (voted for suspension against his

long term commitment to developing the abortion pill) and Roussel-Uclaf (voted to suspend

distribution, as it had previously done with contraceptive pill in the 1960s; forced to

distribute the pill by the French Government) is the obvious question. As the vice chairman

of Roussel-Uclaf stated, following his meeting with the health minister, “We are relieved of

the moral burden weighing on our shoulders” (Badaracco, 1997, p. 114). However, there can

be little doubt that several of the people involved faced the tragic question and accepted to

live by the values they had attested. Roussel-Uclaf which subsequently became wholly

owned by Hoechst in 1997 terminated production and distribution of the abortion pill,

standing by its values, particularly its Roman Catholic chairman, in the debate. It transferred

the rights to the abortion pill to Edouard Sakiz. Edouard Sakiz, although he had voted for the

suspension of the pill at the board meeting, had attested to his personal commitment to the

drug by stating that “if I were a lone scientist, I would have acted differently” (Badaracco,

1997, p. 106). He went on to become the CEO of Exelgyn and continue distribution and

research on the abortion pill. Whilst Roussel-Uclaf did absolve themselves of the ‘moral


21

burden’ by shifting the decision onto the French health minister in 1988, leaders such as

Sakiz and the chairman of Hoechst continued to stand by what they believed to be virtuous.

To summarize, we have argued that asking the tragic question is important for

wisdom. By addressing the tragic question we are 1) emotionally perceptive and recognise

moral issues; 2) produce and attest to human virtue. We have argued for a doing approach

which emphasises wisdom as a more subtle and elusive art of moral sensemaking that

constructs moral reality. In the next section we discuss the implications of asking the tragic

question. In particular we focus on two key issues – personal wisdom gained from posing

tragic questions and organizational wisdom in terms of public acceptance of moral culpability

in response to tragic questions.

Discussion

Central to the tragic question are incommensurable and competing values. There are

good reasons for and against choices available. As the RU 486 case illustrates, the Christian

values of Hoechst and their chairman are directly opposed to Sakiz’s liberal values on

abortion. Yet, the focus on choices relates to the obvious question and finding good reasons

for making a choice. How the debates unfold and how different stakeholders will answer the

obvious question is an ongoing one where different stakeholders wrestle with the dilemma

and justify their choices. In this sense, wisdom is a process. As Vaill summarised:

Process wisdom is insightful about the very phenomena that so many

people experience as crazy, messy, and confused. Where others

perceive only ‘the blind leading the blind,’ ‘the patients running the

asylum,’ or ‘rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic’ (all expressions

one routinely hears in situations of high turbulence, uncertainty, and


22

rapid change), those with process wisdom manage to continue to

perceive meaning and possibility. Those with process wisdom are

able to see how work can continue on the human projects being

buffeted by continual change. As such, process wisdom combines the

qualities of mind and character we have always meant by wisdom

with the ability to ‘dance’ with change and instability without losing

one’s sense of purpose and direction. (Vaill, 1998, p. 35)

We can see this in the continued attestation to human virtues exemplified by Arjuna

and his family in the Mahabharata, by Dennis Gioia in response to his decision in the Ford

Pinto case, and by the various stakeholders in the abortion pill issue. What the examples of

Arjuna, Ford Pinto and RU 486 illustrate are wisdom as emotional perception and production

and attestation of human virtues in response to the tragic question.

The acute case of tragic questions brings to the fore the pre-cognitive processes and

pre-figured symbolic systems that enable us to engage in moral sensemaking (Weick, 1998).

It foregrounds doubt by challenging what is known in the face of genuine moral dilemmas

(Mecham, 1990; Weick, 1998). The tragic question emphasises the “sheer complexity and the

agonizing difficulty of choosing well” (Nussbaum, 1990, p. 55). The tragic question is a

means for converting the intricate, obdurate and intractable situation into something tangible

and amenable to perception, reflection and action. It foregrounds the recognition of moral

wrongdoing which persons and organizations have to live with. There may be a temptation to

‘solve’ the tragic dilemma. However, those who try to solve it are likely to reformulate the

problem in terms of the obvious question and miss the significance of asking the tragic

question. The only possible solution to the tragic question is to describe and see the wrong-

wrong choice clearly and to acknowledge that there is no way out of doing wrong. “The best

the agent can do is to have his suffering, the natural expressions of his goodness of character,


23

and not to stifle these responses out of misguided optimism … If we were such that we could

in a crisis dissociate ourselves from one commitment because it clashed with another, we

would be less good. Goodness itself, then, insists that there should be no further or moral

revisionary solving” (Nussbaum, 2001, p. 50). In attempting to answer the tragic question, we

find out more about ourselves and what we care about in the pursuit of a good life. By asking

the tragic question and producing anew human virtues in particular situations and attesting to

stand by the virtue in the future, individuals create a ‘voice of conscience’ for future actions

which lingers in the form of passions and emotions that sensitize and direct attention to

morally salient aspects of future situations.

Tragic questions pose significant challenges for organizations. Whereas for

individuals they create space to acknowledge the ‘difficulty of being good’ (Das, 2009) and

gain personal insights (as Gioia’s reflections and Sakiz’ actions illustrate), organizations are

scripted to avoid feeling, recognizing and accepting moral issues. For example, as the Ford

Pinto case illustrated:

Actually, “problem” was a word whose public use was forbidden by

the legal office at the time, even in service bulletins, because it

suggested corporate admission of culpability. “Condition” was the

sanctioned catchword. In addition to these potential recall candidates,

there were many files containing field reports of alleged component

failure (another forbidden word) that had led to accidents, and in

some cases, passenger injury. (Gioia, 1992, p. 381)

Forbidding the use of terms such as ‘problem’ and ‘failure’ is part of organizational

scripts aimed at avoiding any admission of legal or moral culpability. Similarly, as the

abortion pill case demonstrates, organizations are more comfortable in shifting the moral


24

burden onto others. Both examples demonstrate that organizations are more attuned to

delivering an apologia rather than an apology (Hearit, 2006). Although the two terms appear

to be synonyms, they represent the distinction between avoiding moral responsibility and

accepting moral culpability. As Hearit states:

Apologia, taken from the Greek word apologia (Gk. apo, away off,

absolve; logia, speech), means ‘defense’ or ‘speech in defense’

(Moulton, 1978 pp.40, 45; Simpson & Weiner, 1989 p. 533;

Tavuchis, 1991p. 14; Wilke, Grimm, & Thayer, 1886 p.65); similarly,

the verb apologeomai means to ‘speak so as to absolve one’s self’

(Wilke, et al., 1886 p. 65). Apology is a newer term that, conversely,

has just the opposite connotation. In common usage, to apologize is

‘[t]o acknowledge and express regret for a fault without defence ...’

(Simpson & Weiner, 1989 p. 533, emphasis added). (Hearit, 2006, p.

4)

What the Ford Pinto and the abortion pill case illustrate is that individuals and

organizations speak to absolve themselves of moral wrongdoing. Hearit demonstrates that in

response to criticisms of (general, not just ethical) wrongdoing, organizations adopt a

combination of the following approaches: ‘we didn’t do it’, ‘counter-attack to discredit the

accuser’, ‘it’s not really our fault’, ‘we promise not to do it again’ and ‘talk to our lawyers’.

In the Ford Pinto case, for example, Ford offers a combination of justifications for why ‘it’s

not really our fault’, including ‘lawyer talk’ to absolve the company of moral culpability.

Roussel-Uclaf, in response to their tragic dilemma, pass the burden onto the French

Government for talking the moral decision to approve the abortion pill.


25

In contrast, Arjuna and his family, in the Mahabharata, demonstrate deep remorse

and regret at the tragic war. The war leads to the destruction of almost everyone on both

sides. Rather than offer an apologia, Yudhishthira, Arjuna’s elder brother and king, faces up

to the consequences of the tragic war. He is filled with grief and sorrow:

To get a piece of the earth we totally abandoned men who were equal

to the earth, men whom we should never have killed. And now we

live with our kinsmen dead and our wealth exhausted ... like dogs we

greedily went after a piece of meat! Now our piece of meat is gone,

and so are those who would have eaten it ... The heroes are dead. The

evil is done. Our kingdom has been laid waste. Having killed them,

our rage is gone. Now this grief holds me in check! (Das, 2009, p.

237)

Yudhishthira’s grief is so much that he cannot see a way for him to become king and

talks about renouncing the world. It takes a great deal of persuasion for Yudhishthira to make

peace with his responsibility for waging the tragic war. Yudhishthira states that the Pandava’s

victory is “a great sorrow that is constantly in my heart” (Das, 2009, p. 240). What the tragic

question foregrounds, and Yudhishthira accepts in his show of retributive emotion, is ‘tragic

guilt’, “the self-regarding retributive emotion that is properly experienced in response to

unavoidable, unintentional and even involuntary infliction of harm” (DeLapp, 2012, p. 54).

DeLapp argues that persons who experience tragic guilt “might be expected to express

greater empathy and solidarity with others since she would be sensitive to the ‘moral luck’

that can affect our moral assessments” (DeLapp, 2012, p. 61). Yudhishthira, Arjuna and the

Pandavas’ acceptance of tragic guilt and their show of retributive emotion demonstrates how,

by asking the tragic question, one can begin to reconnect with all those who suffered because

of the war. Yudhishthira’s response to the tragic question is emotional and affirms the human


26

virtue of not killing. However, within organizational contexts, the notion of the tragic guilt

and the public acceptance of moral culpability are almost non-existent and pose significant

challenges.

Whilst at the personal level, individuals may ask and respond to the tragic question, as

illustrated by Yudhishthira and Gioia, collectively, organizations struggle to create space for

raising moral issues and having ‘good conversations’ (Bird, 1996). Bird (Bird, 1996, p. 234)

argues that “good conversations occasion the formation and strengthening of conscience” at

the individual and organizational level. These conversations help individuals to collectively

“attempt to sort out their feelings, judgments, and expectations in relation to a particular

decision that has to be made” (Bird, 1996, p. 246). For example, Bosk (1979) described how

surgeons at a West Coast hospital in the US in 1970s would address unavoidable errors by

‘forgiving and remembering’ them. He describes the practice of ‘putting on the hair shirt’

through which surgeons “excuse their mistakes by admitting them” (Bosk, 1979, p. 145).

Done publicly at Morbidity and Mortality (M&M) conferences, the act ‘putting on the hair

shirt’ enables senior and well-established surgeons to demonstrate “humility, gentleness,

wisdom, and … to accept the limits of human activity” (Bosk, 1979, p. 144). In terms of

creating organizational, or in the case of surgeons, professional conscience, open confession

at M&M conferences provide space for “the proper expression of guilt and teaches them to

accept that such accidents are inevitable, unfortunate and intractable fact of professional life”

(Bosk, 1979, p. 144).

Implications and future research

To summarize, the tragic question makes us vulnerable. The tragic question is

necessarily emotionally charged. And as we have argued, emotions are central to sensitizing

us to moral dilemmas, enforcing our moral commitments, and articulating values we care


27

about. Emotions should be understood as “‘geological upheavals of thought’: as judgements

in which people acknowledge the great importance, for their own flourishing, of things that

they do not fully control – and acknowledge thereby their neediness before the world and its

events” (Nussbaum, 2003, p. 90). The tragic question also is questioning as mental questing

(Cooper, 2001), one that transgresses conventional boundaries and builds one’s character and

disposition towards virtuous actions. Seeing and recognising that one can find oneself in

situations that are not free from wrongdoing, whatever one chooses, one reinforces one’s

determination to avoid such situations in future, and strengthens one’s dispositions of

character to accept moral responsibility.

Our emphasis on productive, emotional and tragic dimensions of wisdom supports a

narrative mode of understanding wisdom. Previous research on wisdom focusing on

identification and narration of wisdom in oneself and others (Gluck, Bluck, Baron, &

McAdams, 2005; Yang, 2008) has demonstrated the importance of narrating wisdom-related

stories and its link to personal events. By asking the tragic question, we depart from

individualising the question of wisdom (i.e. is the person wise?) and move towards

understanding wisdom relationally. This has two important implications for future research.

Firstly, we suggest that future research can identify and frame situations as tragic. At present,

organizational scripts focus on the obvious question and have routinized responses in the

form of apologia. By identifying situations as tragic, organizations can attempt to have ‘good

conversations’, understand why we find ourselves in tragic situations and find ways of

collectively reframing such situations. Secondly, asking the tragic question in organizations is

a public act which commits the organization, not just the people involved at the time of

decision-making, to accept moral responsibility towards those that were wronged and find

ways of righting those wrongs. In this sense, organizational wisdom, unlike individual traits,

skills and competences associated with wisdom, refers to public narration of moral


28

responsibility. Future research can explore the ways in which organizations can publicly

accept moral responsibility. Research could examine how corporate wrongs are kept alive in

organizational memory through stories and commemorations.

Our emphasis on the tragic question also suggests future direction for research on the

individual person facing the tragic situation. In the Ford Pinto and abortion pill examples, the

tragic question was most pressing on Gioia and Sakiz respectively. We suggest that future

research could investigate how individuals are attuned to morally salient issues and how they

are perceived by others for raising the tragic question. As Nussbaum argues, “to attend a

tragic drama [is] not to go to a distraction or a fantasy, in the course of which one suspended

one’s anxious practical questions. It [is], instead, to engage in a communal process of inquiry,

reflection and feeling with respect to important civic and personal ends” (Nussbaum, 1990, p.

15). For Nussbaum the “conception of moral attention and moral vision finds in novels its

most appropriate articulation” (Nussbaum, 1990, p. 148). This has implications for how

management education uses literary texts in developing moral perception (Badaracco, 2006).

We have alluded to literary texts such as the Mahabharata, but future research could include

other “cultural crystallizations of wisdom” (Staudinger & Gluck, 2011, p. 216) such as

folktales and stories that sensitize perception.

Future research could also examine the role of others in raising the tragic question. If,

as we have argued in this paper, emotional responses that produce and attest to human virtues

anew are central to wisdom, this raises important questions about how others perceive such

responses. Literature on whistle-blowers indicates that virtuous actions are perceived

negatively by colleagues (Near & Miceli, 1996). For example, Moberg (2006, p. 416) notes

that Cynthia Cooper, the whistle-blower in the WorldCom case, was treated poorly following

the departure of the convicted CEO and CFO. Rather than see her act as wise in terms of

standing up for the human virtue of honesty, “her salary was frozen, her auditing position


29

authority was circumscribed, and her budget was cut.” This raises interesting questions for

future research. For example, do colleagues see virtuous actions as betrayal as in the whistle-

blower cases? Is there a difference between how wisdom (defined as production of human

values) is perceived by people close to the person as opposed to distant perceptions of

wisdom? Production of human virtues is not a singular act. Instead it is a process that

develops over time until the person feels that it is appropriate to take a stand. For example,

we may face tragic questions on a daily basis. However, most situations may not have the

moral intensity (Jones, 1991) to lead to asking the tragic question. Future research could

explore the challenges individuals face over time in terms of asking and responding to tragic

questions in organizations.

Conclusions

We contribute to the wisdom literature by presenting the importance of asking and

responding to the tragic question. For us, learning to be wise implies being vulnerable to the

tragic question. We have argued that the tragic question raises three key issues. Firstly, we

have argued that wisdom, rather than highlight doing the right thing, is an acceptance that

acting responsibly may lead to doing the wrong thing. Tragic situations present a choice

between wrong and wrong, and recognising such choices are as important, if not more so,

than addressing the obvious question. Secondly, by asking the tragic question, we are

emotionally aware of morally salient aspects of a situation. Tragic questions enable us to

perceive and attend to moral issues rather than side-line them. Thirdly, we argued that tragic

questions demonstrate a commitment to producing and attesting to human virtues anew.

Although we find ourselves in a tragic situation, it presents us with an opportunity to

recognise and acknowledge wrongdoings and gain personal and organizational wisdom.


30

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